


Here, No Evil

by mirwalker



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirwalker/pseuds/mirwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between Seasons 3 & 4, the Prison community experiences growth in more than numbers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Sights

**Author's Note:**

> As this one is developing organically, chapter lengths will likely vary; rating and focal character list may change.

The street was covered in a potpourri of fallen leaves, as were the sidewalk, the yards, the paths and the ground as far as the eye could see. The sky was clear and bright through barren trees; and Glenn could easily feel the quick changes in temperature as he passed from sunbeam to shadow. But for the brisk chill, it was actually a beautiful late autumn day, and a nice change of scenery from the Prison's walls and yard. He smiled as he relished the moment, so calm and quiet.

Damn, noisy leaves, though Daryl. Every step in the brittle carpet screamed their movements; every gust of breeze sounded like or covered an approaching walker horde. Going slow was the only way not to give away to or miss telltale signs of other hungry mouths out for a walk this afternoon.

And hunger was the reason they were having this quality time together today. Their community was nearly three times larger than it had been just a few weeks before; and while still learning names and personalities of the Woodbury refugees, they had more quickly gone through the supplies that also migrated from the now burned out town. More friends and neighbors ultimately meant more supply runs. With summer gone, foraging was limited; and the few animals around were more competition for that scarcity than easy targets for the hunt. Convenient human settlements were similarly picked over; the supply parties were having to venture farther and farther out for even the most paltry finds.

So, this single block of storefronts had not been worth their effort until now. The four doors and matching large windows faced an open lot, and contained the staples of antiqued rural communities: A Post Office, which may or may not still have been operating when things went bad. A double-wide hardware/ craft store whose inventory probably hadn't changed, or sold, much in decades. And a small market/café which could easily have been the happening spot here in 'Some-Family-Name Crossroads,' or whatever the intersection had once been known. Even before the larger world had fallen into decay, this center of commerce and conversation had seen better days. In that way, it had been both behind, and ahead of, its times.

Intending to next check the few homes visible in three directions, Daryl waved Glenn past the small room of mailboxes and useless stamps. Also unlocked, either from long-standing trust or last-minute panic, the small market offered them little: long rotted produce, picked over canned goods and a single, discrete shelf of undisturbed personal care goods. Daryl grimaced as Glenn stuffed all the feminine products into his backpack along with the ancient-looking bottles of pain relief.

"Christmas is coming up soon," he was reminded. Somebody was going to be popular with nearly half the Prison's occupants…

Not having filled even a single bag, they moved on to the mercantile, careful to silence the large bell attached to the door as they entered. Significantly better stocked, and less plundered, perhaps they could find some useful hardware to make the stop worthwhile.

Having entered in one front corner, they took up a standard search pattern, turning to head down different sides of the shelf-filled space. Almost immediately, there were two sharp thumps from toward the rear. Weapons up and stopping short, Daryl and Glenn confirmed they'd both heard it, and switched to an even more cautious and targeted exploration.

Heading down the far side of the store, Daryl ended up moving a little faster, and saw slight movement several aisles ahead. No longer able to see Glenn across the store, he picked his way carefully through a spilled displayed, and followed one row until he was parallel to a figure facing a counter near the center of the back wall.

While not finely dressed, he could clearly see through the shelves that the figure certainly wasn't ragged. Its jeans and jacket were worn, but intact; and its knit cap looked like those that had been in a bin at the market next door. Though no walker, this fellow "shopper" could still be a threat, Daryl knew. And still no sign of Glenn at the far end of the aisle.

The figure was fussing with something before it on the countertop, and occasionally made little grunting sounds—a mix of high pitched and low bass sounds. It glanced to either side from time to time, obviously keeping an eye out for company; but it never looked directly behind, where Daryl had taken up position.

"Hands up where I can see 'em, and step back from the table," he called out quietly, in case the focused worker had friends around.

But the figure kept working, giving no indication it cared about its newly arrived company or the instructions being directed at it.

Meanwhile, Glenn had made his way down his side of the store, and noted Daryl's tactical stance. Daryl nodded toward the figure one row ahead of him, which Glenn interpreted as an instruction to engage, and so stepped slowly forward.

Sensing movement to its right, the figure turned to face Glenn. The short, blond beard indicated they'd stumbled upon a man; the big eyes and frantic glancing about suggested they'd entirely surprised him. On turning toward Glenn's arrival, the man now also caught a glimpse of Daryl and the business end of a crossbow separated from him by only a rack of plumbing pieces. He glanced down to the knife sitting on the counter where'd he been fiddling.

Glenn warned him from doing more. "Don't even think about it… We don't want trouble; so just put your hands up and keep them there."

The man let out a little whimper, and continued looking around as he slowly raised his hands.

Gun still raised between them, Glenn gestured that he should "Step away from the table, slowly."

Himself misunderstanding, or not interested in playing along, the man didn't move at all for a moment, and then threw himself suddenly into the plastic pipes beside him, toppling the shelves onto Daryl. Not having surprised himself with the bold move, the man snatched the knife from the counter, let out a piercing screech, and bolted back down the aisle away from Glenn, making a run for the front door.

"I'm OK," shouted Daryl, as he worked to disentangle himself and his bow from the mess.

Confident his partner was not harmed, and knowing their new friend was escaping, Glenn sprinted up the aisle on his side, eyes locked on the street door at its end. Weapon up, he turned into the space in front of that exit, just before the bearded man was able to cross the width of the store's front to reach it.

On seeing his escape cut off, the man stopped short and raised his knife again, clearly not ready to surrender. Deeper in the store, the clatter of plastic subsided as Daryl finally freed himself; but the man stayed focused only on Glenn and the exit beside him.

Without warning, that door opened onto Glenn, with a happy jingle entirely out of sync with its force enough to knock him to the floor.

Quickly, another, similarly dressed figure was on top of Glenn in a quick, and brief, change to the balance of power.

In a rapid succession of tag-team grunts, blows, stumbles and curses, Glenn found himself holding his gun on the newer, dark-bearded arrival, prone on the ground before him, while Daryl and their first find wrestled in the wide aisle beside the cash register.

Though Daryl knew that he was probably stronger than his slimmer and apparently younger opponent, the other man was quickly turning out to be more flexible. By sheer contortion, he managed to slip out of Daryl's grip, and wrangle himself above the cursing Dixon, bringing his knife uncomfortably close. Face-to-face in another stalemate, the young man growled, again a mix of rumble and squeal.

"Let him go," shouted Glenn, not doubting Daryl's ability to best the other man, but not wanting to test it either. "I've got your friend here. We don't want to hurt anybody; but you need to let him GO!" He raised his eyebrows at his own captive, suggesting he join in persuasive effort.

"Stop!" the man on the ground shouted, his eyes not moving from the wrestling pair, but clearly not speaking to his own companion. He slowly drew himself to his knees, arms somewhere between upright surrender and outstretched plea. He looked at the strangers, not sure whom to beseech. "Please don't. He can't hear you... He can't hear!"

The walker who slammed against the front window at that moment suggested that it could hear them all, and was eager to join their tense company.


	2. Distant Connections

Glenn, Daryl and the dark-bearded man all flinched at the walker's noisy introduction. The dirty blond stranger holding the knife to Daryl's face paid no heed to the growling fifth wheel just a few feet and a pane of glass away.

"He's Deaf; he can't hear you. Please, let me?" asked Glenn's prisoner plaintively, now looking at directly him with a new level of anxiety and urgency. A large, lighter-colored scar flashed along one side of his tanned face, as he flushed from the fight and fear of the moment. "Let him see that I've surrendered, and he will. I promise. Please? Before more rottens show up…"

Glenn glanced at Daryl's struggle on the floor, with a blade still much too close for comfort. His own prisoner was offering a way to safely break the standoff. But if he let the talker move closer, it could easily become a two-on-one against Daryl, in quarters so close as to make firing at the human pile too dangerous. Maybe the other guy could hear perfectly well; and this was just their go-to scam when things went bad. Still, the knife-wielder hadn't reacted to the walker at all; and that certain threat to them all was continuing to make a noisy effort to join them.

So, he couldn't wait for the walker to break in, or hope that Daryl would triumph quickly; and this guy's story and intentions seemed true. The only thing Glenn could be confident of in the moment was his own quick reflexes and true aim. "OK; but don't get too close, keep your hands where I can see them, and if you try anything…" He wiggled the pistol to give both permission and threat.

With an obvious relief, the man gave a brief nod, and slowly crawled toward the stalemated pair, until he could wave a hand into his friend's field of vision from a few feet away. He narrated aloud as he gestured with one hand, "Stop. Let him go. It's over. Stop!"

For his part, Glenn explained the larger situation for his teammate, "Daryl, I've got a bead on his head; if he tries anything, be ready for him to drop…"

On becoming aware only of the hand gesturing to him, the lighter-haired stranger glanced quickly between his friend and his opponent. He snarled one more time at Daryl, as if for good measure; and then slowly, grudgingly, eased his grip, dropped the knife aside and began rolling off.

As the friend batted the knife beyond arms' reach to cement their surrender, Daryl took advantage of the lessened threat, and pushed the now-captive off him. As everyone stood toward a slightly less acute standoff, Daryl parted ways with a loud "Sonnavabitch!," and a roundhouse punch that sent the man spinning to the floor at his friend's feet.

"Hey!" the other shouted, hands groping for any weapon on the shelf beside him, until Glenn's gun-tracking stopped him.

"Daryl!" Glenn chided his companion as well, not wanting the situation to return to worse, certainly not because of actions by his side.

Slowly the dark-haired stranger knelt beside his wounded companion, sparing his bleeding nose and lip as much attention as he could while both watched their captors warily. The lighter-haired man flinched as the touch, but nodded nonetheless that he was OK—his angry gaze not veering from plaid-clad bowman.

Ignoring the likely hateful look, Daryl shook his hand out, and in one clean motion picked up the discarded knife, opened the exterior door and stuck it deep into the forehead of the eager walker. With a short gurgle, it fell back onto the sidewalk, finally still and quiet.

With both opponents vanquished, and his most acute aggression sated, Daryl stepped beside the store counter to pick up his fallen crossbow, and announced instead, "Well, well, look what else we have here." He stepped behind the ancient register, and lifted up two large, tightly packed expedition backpacks. Tucked away as they'd been, and noticeably less dusty than everything else in the place, he guessed, "These wouldn't happen to belong to y'all now, would they?"

The glare from both men confirmed he'd found their on-the-go lives. The look Glenn shot him suggested he not further escalate things. Daryl ignored all.

"What's your story?" Glenn asked the newcomers to re-set the tone of the interaction, as Daryl tossed the packs on the counter and began poking through their pockets and compartments, despite and perhaps because it bothered the others.

"The _short_ version," the crossbowman clarified, as he looked out the storefront to check what other company the episode may have invited their way. Not that his impatience seemed that out-of-character in general.

The darker-haired stranger handed the handkerchief press to the bearded blond, and gestured calmly and consistently as he spoke, keeping the silent partner informed of the conversation. "We were on a Boy Scout wilderness week above Dahlonega, when- when everything went down. We found nothing—no one in Atlanta, and then followed rumors to Ft Benning." He shook his head, confirming that there'd been no sanctuary there, nor reason to stay.

"Just you two?"

"Yes, sir. The troop …fell apart over time. Just like everything else did." He nodded toward the body and wrecked townscape outside, meaning well beyond it too.

"They got some sweet stuff," Daryl pointed out, as he continued to poke through their packs, pulling at the corner of a thermal foil blanket. "And some _really_ high end gear."

Having already noticed the quality fabrics worn under their ratty hoodies, Glenn glanced back to the dark-headed one, giving him the chance to respond, to explain.

"The sport shops have had some pretty good sales of late; we stocked up…," the young man laughed, hoping they could connect through some looting humor and the resourcefulness that had become a survival skill for everyone. "Look, we don't want any trouble," he offered, quickly putting on the ratty Falcons cap his friend passed back to him from where it had fallen to the floor. "Everybody acted like we have to these days—cautious, quickly, strong; so no hard feelings here. If you'll just leave us our stuff, we'll be on our way…"

"What are your names?" Glenn asked, not sure what they should do next.

"Aw, don't make friends," chided Daryl, taking a handful of hot chocolate packets from one pack, before dropping it to the floor again. Making no attempt to hide his actions or opinion, he suggested, "Our little campers here jumped _us_ when we were just trying to say 'hello'…"

"I'm Ben," the spokesman said, continued to translate with whirring fingers, while trying to ignore the unfriendly member of the conversation. "This is Bradley."

Glenn squinted at the silent one, before asking the talkative one, "Have we met? He looks familiar."

"No," Ben shook his head quickly. "We've never seen either of you before."

"'Good' familiar, or 'bad'?" Daryl asked his friend, not wanting the latter to turn into a threat later that could be avoided now.

"Not 'bad,'" Glenn assured; but not able to offer more than that.

"And you?" Ben asked, reminding them that friendly introductions ought to be mutual.

"I'm Glenn, and this is-"

"Not about getting cozy," Daryl interrupted. "We get any good stuff, and we go…"

Glenn stepped closer to him, not turning his back on the newcomers, but trying to cut down on their hearing his divergent opinion. "What do we do with them?"

"Leave 'em," Daryl pointed out the obvious.

"Just walk away? What if they follow? And we can't tie 'em up; they'd be sitting ducks if-"

"Not our problem. We have… other things to concern us." His tone and look made it clear who the other concerns were, without saying outright that they actually had others.

"I don't mean to be pushy," interjected Ben, "but I'm probably not the only one who heard your car pull up. We'd really like not to be here when the guy outside's friends show up." He didn't indicate whether he'd actually overheard, or if he had a particular idea of where he was expecting to go.

Bradley stood up, suggesting that he too was ready to move on, and that some decision needed to be made soon.

"Where were you headed?" asked Glenn. _We'll let them do the talking, perhaps offer a solution._

"Thanksgiving's coming up next week," Ben explained. "We were thinking about holing up in one of the nearby houses for a little while. I had just starting checking them out when y'all showed up."

"Ain't nothing here we need right now," whispered Daryl to Glenn. "We can come back with the truck and a few more hands, after we ask around for what hardware we could use…"

"Not if they're waiting here for us," reminded Glenn, not taking his eyes of the two young men. And although he got the sense they were being honest, he added, "And we don't know if they are just two."

Daryl nodded, deciding and announcing therefore that, "Alright. Y'all are going to take your stuff, and hit the road. You're no longer welcome in this little neighborhood, on account of its being ours, and your fight's attracting his possible friends and acquaintances…" He nodded toward the corpse outside.

Glenn shot him a look, as the unilateral banishment was not what he'd had in mind, or at least not ceded power to meet out.

He was even more surprised then, when Ben agreed with no struggle. "That's fine, sir; we understand. If we can just have our packs, and our weapons, we'll be on our way, no trouble."

As Ben spoke, he'd continued to translate for his friend, who looked equally surprised and much more unhappy at the fast agreement; but obviously thought better of arguing with his own ally.

"Keeping those hyper hands where we can see 'em," Daryl instructed, keeping the show moving along in case there were more walkers on the way. "Y'all step on outside and pick a direction. We'll put your stuff down and cover you while you take it and don't come back."

The blond grunted, and motioned intricately to the back of the store.

Ben nodded, and looked back to their judges. "He needs to get his slingshot from the back. He'd been repairing it, I guess when you found each other."

"Great," groaned Daryl, with a resigned exhale. "I'll take blondy back to get his toy; but it's costing you your cocoa." He dropped the packets into his own bag. "If he tries anything, my friend here will shoot _you_ ," he warned the spokesman.

"I'll go," insisted Glenn, not entirely trusting Daryl and Bradley not to get into it again, as the fire hadn't fully gone out in either's eyes. "Same warning, though."

With a final explanation and assuring nod from Ben, Bradley limped back down the aisle with Glenn a few steps back, gun drawn.

Ben turned back to find the sullen captor just staring and pointing the crossbow at him, probably with his ears perked for any commotion out of sight, hoping to get to shoot him.

Opposite him, Daryl kept his ears perked for any commotion out of sight, almost hoping to get to shoot this guy.

For a moment they just faced one another, wondering what the other would really do, what he had already done in these ruthless times.

From the back, Glenn announced, "Got it; we're good, and heading back up."

Without a change in expression, Daryl abruptly asked, "Boy Scout or not, why do you hang on with him? These days, ain't too many old ladies to help across the street. So, he's only a burden; gonna get you both killed…"

Without hesitation, Ben explained just as adamantly. "He's my brother; I wouldn't leave him for anything."

Daryl looked away as Bradley and the Glenn emerged from the aisle, the latter announcing, "He got his slingshot and materials; looks like he was installing a new rubberband part."

Kicking their bags over toward the door, Daryl didn't waste any additional time on the odd couple siblings. "Grab your packs and head out to street. We'll follow, grab your knife and leave your weapons where you can pick them up and then keep walking."

Ben nodded, and passed the instructions on, prompting them both to pick their way carefully out onto the road—minding Bradley's injured leg, and avoiding the cadaver sprawled across the doorstep.

As promised, Daryl and Glenn kept a sharp eye on them, before Glenn placed their previously dropped or surrendered weapons in a pile between the opposing pairs.

Everyone kept looking around in case their introduction had been taken as an invitation by more walkers.

Backing away, Glenn let Daryl continue the instructions, "Now you can gather your goodies and keep on walking, right out of town."

Not needing to translate, Ben nodded and then waved Bradley forward. Picking up their knives, slingshot and the two-pronged spear that had also been on the sidewalk outside the store, they turned and headed slowly up the little main street without looking back.

As they shrank into the early evening distance, Glenn and Daryl silently admired the clear devotion of the pair, and appreciated having lost nothing more than time in this unexpected confrontation.

Once they were beyond sight, Daryl nodded Glenn back to the store. "Lets' grab a few things, pose our friend in the window and lock up the place. It'll suggest our pretty boys, or anybody else who comes by, to stay out 'til we can get back tomorrow…"

* * *

"What did you mean back there, 'pretty boys'?" Glenn asked as soon as they'd completed their diversionary loop back toward the prison. In case anyone had been watching them pull out of the village, they'd driven off in the wrong direction, and corrected course home once a little distance out.

"What?" asked Daryl from the driver's seat, having said a lot of things he didn't keep track of. Nodding to the rearview, he realized, "Are you still hung up on those two?"

Glenn didn't answer, which he took for an affirmative.

"They had good teeth," he explained. "Like they'd never missed a day's brushing or trip to the dentist. Boy Scouts, high end gear… Obviously some 'quality' people." The factual description was also dripping with sarcasm. "Only fault I could see was the one's being dumb, and the scar down the chatty one's face."

"He's not dumb; he's deaf—they're different," Glenn corrected. "And I have nice teeth; does that make me a 'pretty boy'?"

Daryl shot him a clear WTF look.

"My point is," Glenn understood the question, "Is that they seemed nice enough, have obviously lasted a while despite Bradley's disability; and we just sent them off into the night. The week before Thanksgiving..."

"We don't need anybody else to provide for," the realist reminded him.

"Seems to me we could use the help; and they _could_ help," Glenn clarified, looking out the window. _The 'dumb' one wrestled you to a draw_ , he had the good sense not to point out.

When Daryl didn't say no or otherwise silence him, Glenn kept thinking aloud. "Though Bradley was limping pretty good; I wonder if we hurt him."

"You mean after he dumped a rack of pipes on me?" Daryl re-entered the not yet debate. "Seems fair enough to me."

"We startled him with weapons drawn…"

"He is not our problem."

"That's quite a friendship, though; don't you think?" Glenn asked, sitting up in his seat. "For Ben to stick with him…"

"Well, they ain't our friends, luckily," Daryl concluded.

"You don't find it strange that they never asked about our camp, or whether we had more people? Most people do."

"Exactly," the driver said, with a slap to the steering wheel for emphasis. "They haven't _asked_ for help or to join us. And the whole reason we're here is because we don't have enough as it is."

"Which is exactly why we all have to start thinking bigger... These two are young; they look strong and pretty healthy. They're Scouts; think of what we'd gain from putting all that badge learning to good use, long term."

"Your cheery outlook on everybody is real nice and all. But selling cookies ain't a useful skill these days, pretty, scouty, brothers or not!"

"Wait! They're brothers?" Glenn asked him, surprised.

_Brothers who probably had to strike out on their own when their groups got tired of one's issues. Brothers who apparently were smart enough to prefer one another to the company, and judgment, of others. Brothers who obviously loved one other enough to stick together despite the odds and onlookers in this hell daily life had become. To stay true to his brother no matter what…_

The car slowed to a halt as Daryl drifted off in thought, with Glenn looking at him and around for what else might be stopping them.

Daryl turned toward him intently, and offered with almost an anger in his eyes, "If you stop nagging and whining on about them, we can go back and get 'em. But this bringing the strays home is all on you."

Catching himself before he grinned in victory, Glenn nodded in thanks and agreement, before turning his thoughts toward how to find the exiled duo, and get back to the prison before the fast-approaching sunset.


	3. Common Interests

"How do you know they're still around?" Glenn asked, as they stood at the intersection beside the old storefront the next day.

"They know we hadn't checked these houses yet—so there's still stuff to get; and they knew we weren't likely to be back until tomorrow, at least not with more people. So, why leave when you can scavenge first, get at least one night in? Besides, the squeaky one's hurt; they ain't going far."

"Those are some good reasons they _might_ stay; but you said you _know_ they're still here. How?"

Daryl nodded to the personalized sign they'd painted on the mercantile the day before, when they'd returned but not managed to locate the pair before nightfall. "Their names are rubbed out. Only their names."

Sure enough, the block letters on the window had changed overnight to a smeared top line, followed by "… LET'S TALK. HERE. SAME TIME TOMORROW." Wind, blown leaves or even walkers moving against the window would have messed it up more randomly. Someone had altered it, knowing it would be seen by others 'tomorrow'. And why would anyone except those mentioned erase only the names?

"The question," Daryl reminded, "is how friendly they're gonna be after… yesterday. This is your party, unless it goes south." He didn't need to indicate his crossbow was ready to join the conversation if needed.

"If this even happens," Glenn sighed, as he turned to glance around the quiet block. "Just because they saw it, doesn't mean they stuck around, or plan to play nicely."

As he highlighted his handy bow, Daryl was struck in the shoulder by something quick and colorful, with a soft 'plop' and 'splash.' As he brought the bow up toward the storefronts—the direction he'd been facing and the shot seemed to have come from, Glenn was struck in the same spot, with the same odd sound. Noses filling with a strong chemical odor, they glanced at one another, as each could feel and see a wet stain spreading across the impact point.

"Weapons down, and hands up," a voice behind them instructed firmly.

Swiveling into a slowly spinning, back-to-back defensive position, Glenn and Daryl saw the darker haired brother standing in the bed of their truck. He was only visible from the waist up, having obviously positioned himself to be protected by the cab. His hands appeared empty; but a flame-topped bottle sat on the roof before him.

Gesturing as he spoke, he explained aloud what had just happened. "You've each just been hit with a balloon filled with turpentine; and my brother is ready to hit you both with sparks if you pose a threat. I'll drop this Molotov cocktail into your truck if this discussion proves a trap, or otherwise unsatisfactory. And," he clarified, as neither man had yet complied, "I'll trust you both know the Scout motto, and so can be sure that these aren't the only… 'contingencies' we've put into place should you try anything."

A pebble bounced lightly off Glenn's damp shoulder, as if to emphasize the accuracy of their sniper, and thereby, the gravity of their situation.

Daryl glared accusingly at Glenn, who grimaced, but didn't need to explain that they were clearly trapped between the two, prepared boys, and that they also needed to demonstrate a good intention. So, he slowly set his rifle on the ground, and began speaking as he raised his arms, "Ben, isn't it? We don't want any trouble; just to talk, like our note said. We have an offer to make."

Hands translating for the still unseen second ambusher, Ben stared intently at the still non-compliant Daryl.

"Daryl, just do it. You said this was my show…," Glenn encouraged.

Clearly unhappy, Daryl slowly set down his bow; but, unlike Glenn, he faced the storefront, still trying to figure out where the silent kid was.

"We're listening," Ben finally acknowledged, his conditions met.

_Well, one of ya is,_ Daryl thought better than to say out loud.

Before it could escalate on either side, Glenn cut to the quick. "We changed our minds... Heading home, cooling down yesterday, we just thought better of it. You two have obviously done well to last this long despite… despite everything. And we're trying to build a community of good people, working together for the common good." He let that compliment hang for a moment, not wanting to rush the explanation, lest it seem overly practiced or pressure-filled.

"And, when we couldn't find you last night, we left the note, went back, and talked it over with our people. They agreed. So," he smiled, "we came back—as promised, no tricks—to say we're sorry for the scuffle yesterday, and to see whether you and your brother would like to stop having to go it alone, on the road and on the run. To ask you to join us."

Ben cocked his head to the side slightly. This was apparently not what they had expected to be on the meeting agenda. Or at least not the way they'd expected the subject broached. Having been shocked enough not to translate all of it, he gestured quietly, catching up, before challenging the offer. "Why should we believe you?"

Daryl sighed, clearly agitated that this membership application wasn't going faster.

Glenn shrugged slightly and pointed out, "We didn't have to come back yesterday, call for you, paint the sign or return today without bringing backup. We didn't have to do all that, to give you the chance to lay an ambush for us. We gave you the upperhand here; no pressure or trick, just the advantage, and an invitation."

"After you'd beaten and banished us. Why the sudden change of heart, really?"

"You mean, Why the unnecessary generosity in today's world?" Glenn had to admit, it was a very legitimate and important question.

Daryl preferred to reframe the situation entirely. "Why didn't you just kill us when we came back on schedule today? We ain't the only ones who seem to be holding back or showing some mercy here. Maybe we all got reasons…"

Ben smirked. "I guess we're all just thick with early holiday cheer. So in that spirit: You got our backstory yesterday… To help us consider your offer today, how's about you share a little more on what we'd be getting into. What are you offering? Exactly?"

Daryl's eye was caught by movement in a gable above the mercantile. Crouching and capped, the blond one was now just visible, reading the manual transcript, and glaring, waving a hand and shaking his head as if disagreeing with the further trade, even of information.

Ben refused to look at him, and just nodded expectantly to their wanna-be hosts.

Glenn nodded, "Fair enough. You're right to be suspicious; we would be too, in your shoes. We have been..." Though he didn't share any details on past mistakes with failed new members and mergers, he did give a brief overview of their current circumstances. "We've cleared a prison not too far from here. It doesn't sound appealing, I know; but it's secure, provides shelter, and has space for a good number of additional people. We don't need more mouths to feed as winter comes; but we could use strong hunters and scavengers, who at least pull their weight with work."

"Y'all seem to have done alright for yourselves for a while," Daryl added, as close to a compliment as he was ever likely to give.

"And, more importantly, you didn't run when we tried scaring you; that shows courage and confidence."

"And we haven't killed you yet today," Ben interrupted with a smirk. "And that shows some decency in us. Is that it? Today's actually some kind of test?"

Glenn smiled at the more complete understanding, knowing it was a mutual examination. "How'd we do?"

Ben nodded, and continued signing, "If this place is real, and it's not just you two, or a few others, looking to score some good gear or slave labor… What exactly would happen to us? Start at the bottom of the ladder, with worst space and jobs? Stripped of our gear, to be earned back as servants or grunts? You take the lion's share of whatever we bring in, for rent or 'protection'?"

Glenn glanced at Daryl, as if to wonder whether these guys had really experienced all that. "We just took in a few dozen folks from a town that got overrun. We've formed a council—a group that makes big decisions for the community. But everybody can have a say, and everybody—even the children—chip in on chores, guard duty—whatever they can to contribute. I can't claim it's perfect, or easy; but it's fair and it's working. For us all."

Stepping out even more from his hiding place, Bradley again caught Ben's attention; and his energy and expression suggested he still was not pleased with what he wasn't hearing. They bantered back and forth for several moments, as if forgetting the other men were present, or perhaps trusting them not to take advantage of the attention to the side conversation. Ben's expression turned plaintive, at one point pointing at his brother's leg, and finally to the two observers. Bradley seemed to end the exchange with a clear and emphatic finger pointed at Daryl.

Not quite hiding a grin, Ben explained, "Bradley is usually the friendly, outgoing one of us; but he's not convinced your ragged friend is really onboard with this open arms invitation. So, arbalest, what's your honest thought on all this?"

"Arba –what?" Daryl smarted, presuming the strange word and grin meant he'd just been insulted. He began to reach for his bow.

"Daryl," Glenn cut him off, exaggerating one raised arm while putting the other on the still downturned weapon.

Both their captors braced for preventive pro-action.

"He means your bow," Glenn clarified loudly, for everyone's benefit. More quietly, he explained to his antsy friend, "It's a fancy word for someone who uses a crossbow. He must have been a gamer; they use the old medieval words in some of the siege and warfare online games. So, he just wanted to acknowledge your weapon and skill as he asked for your opinion." He grinned large and cocked his head to encourage a response, preferably a positive one.

Glaring at them all, Daryl shared, "Honestly, I don't give a shit whether y'all join us or not."

Glenn stared at him, shocked.

"But if you're tired of watching your backs at every minute, and having to justify each other to everyone you meet… Well, we could use folks with some smarts, who wanna survive. And I'll give y'all that, for sure."

"That's as close to friendly as he gets," Glenn smiled, relieved and hopeful again. "Whaddaya say?"

Ben looked past them, to where Bradley just glared back, non-committally. He and Daryl seem to be in a no blinking contest, sizing one another up on whether the other could or should be trusted.

Knowing it pointless to try outwaiting his brother, or taking advantage of his preoccupation, Ben looked to Glenn and asked in a voice with more interest than intensity, without signing what he spoke, "Does your prison have a doctor?"

"Of sorts. We don't have a lot of medical supplies; but he'd be happy to take a look at Bradley's leg, and anything else that ails you."

Ben glanced up at his still combat-locked sibling, that concern clearly front and center for him.

Glenn stressed that, "Our doc is missing part of his leg; and no one is without some wound or scar. You _both_ would be welcomed. And there's no obligation; check it out, and if you don't like it, you're welcome to move on."

A raspy groan to one side caught almost everyone's attention; and three of the four negotiators turned to see a grey figure shambling toward the two on the ground. As Glenn and Daryl reached for their defenses, Ben whirled a blurred rod up from the top of the truck, and launched it smoothly into the gaping head. The walker toppled over in the arc of the projectile, and fell still in the road.

As Daryl scanned for more targets, and Glenn processed their fast actions, Ben blew out the flaming bottle, and hopped down from the truck. Trusting that he was still covered from above, he showed some reciprocated trust by stepping out from the vehicle's cover to retrieve his weapon.

Pulling it from the corpse, he held it out in front of him, giving them a better look at the two-pronged spear, and clearly indicating he wasn't pointing it at them. Walking up toward the still cautious pair, he stuck it into the ground beside him, and translated, "A trial period then, through Thanksgiving at least, while his knee heals," nodding up to Bradley.

"What does Squeaky say?" Daryl squinted. "Does he trust us?"

"He trusts me," Ben affirmed, "And I'll try trusting you." He stuck out his hand with more confidence than his tone, or his brother's crosshairs suggested.

Glenn smiled and shook his hand, patting Daryl on the back in further relief and encouragement.

The archer shot another look at the displeased-looking, but not arguing either, shooter on the roof. Tipping his head slightly toward the vigilant sibling, Daryl lowered his own weapon, and matched the grip of their newest cellblock neighbor.


	4. Welcoming Committees

"You can imagine a dozen teenagers' excitement at finding a full liquor cabinet, without any adults around, and after all that had happened …" Ben smiled briefly at the opportunity that would have been the boys' dream come true, under normal circumstances. But that wasn't, and these weren't, normal circumstances; and his amusement faded as quickly as had the high school fantasy. "Like any group of guys, there had always been tensions. And once we'd lost the Scoutmaster, things had started to go all _Lord of Flies_ pretty quickly anyway…"

Hershel nodded knowingly. A few others gathered around the library table may have recognized the title; but gave no indication they did, or didn't, appreciate the depth of literary depravity Ben had just referenced.

"But the open bar removed all the final inhibitions; everything came to a head. A couple of our 'friends' went after Bradley openly, and me for standing by him. Long story short," his eyes dropping and voice quieter, "We left in a hurry; and left them with at least one fewer gang member, and several more injured."

"That's where you got that scar?" Carol asked, gesturing to her the side of her face as proxy for his prominent memento of some past altercation or accident.

Bradley put his hand comfortingly on Ben's shoulder, and shook his head on their behalf. "Another story," the speaker translated for him.

"Kill anyone in that tale?" Daryl asked bluntly.

"No one not already dead…"

"And speaking of, that's our other question: How many walkers have you killed?"

The blond continued to speak for them both through his interpreter. "We haven't counted. A few dozen between us, maybe. We try not to engage unless we have to. Less dangerous that way. Not much to gain otherwise."

"And Glenn said you'd been to Ft Benning?"

"Yes, mam," Ben resumed the telling. "With Atlanta gone, several of us knew folks in Jump School. We'd figured it was the best bet in the region for a stronghold, and was a relatively straight shot down the highways. We," he gestured to his brother, "made our own way down after the troop's falling out; and were at the survivor camp there for a while. But it was going downhill quick too… And when we finally couldn't stand it anymore, we headed out again."(1)

"Did the other Scouts show up?"

"No, sir; never. We don't know what happened to them along the way."

"And where were you heading when our guys ran into you?"

Bradley jumped in to pick up their story. "We thought about going to the coast, figuring the water would be one less direction to watch; and the heat and humidity would speed up the rot. But then we realized they might not swim, but they could still float to us; the gardening options are more limited in sandy soil; finding enough fresh water could be a problem; and there was no way to know if big storms- if hurricanes were coming. Overall, the risks outweighed the benefits."

"So you were headed inland. Where to?"

The boys traded a few silent signs, not including the others in their conversation for the first time since arriving hours before.

The gathered leaders exchanged a few silent, concerned looks themselves, over this sudden secrecy, before Ben looped them back in quickly. "There's no harm in telling them… It's not like we have an address to share." He turned abruptly from Bradley's clear disagreement. "We decided that the mountains were our best bet: the freezes and thaws might be worse than just humid heat on the rotter bodies. They struggle to move over rough terrain or slopes. The crop and wildlife options are much better…"

"And the cliffs work pretty well at stopping people too," added Daryl, knowing a thing or two about the isolating features of his home turf.

Ben nodded. "Beyond other people, the only real risk was the occasional tornado, and fallout from the nuclear plants if they melt down. But we can make a storm shelter, and hoped the plants were shut down properly, or that the jet stream would keep any radiation moving along and up the coast. We liked the Blue Ridge odds better."(2)

"And now you're considering staying on with us… At least for a while," Glenn summarized the deal he'd brokered, now to be secured by this formal introduction of leaders.

Bradley bumped Ben's shoulder with a "you better" look on his face.

The darker haired brother answered more in line with his sibling's intent this time. "Yes, sir. For a little while. To rest up, before we move on."

Hershel glanced around at his gathered friends. Seeing no other pressing questions, he smiled to the new arrivals, "Well, we've got a few other things to discuss tonight; but I think that's all we had for you both. Thank you for sharing with us, and welcome again."

The boys took up their packs and made a circle of the table, shaking all the hands they could reach. One smiled broadly and offered "Thank you"'s and "Nice to meet you"'s; the other nodded politely, intentionally walking past the bowman who didn't look too keen on niceties anyway.

Rick stood to show them out, prompting Hershel to call after him. "Rick, we were hoping you'd join us…"

"Whatever it is, it's not my call," Rick reminded, shaking his head. "I just wanted to meet 'em after Glenn's stories about them. Carl and I will show 'em to Block D, help 'em get settled."

Without waiting for further banter, he motioned the siblings to follow him; and shut the door behind them.

"He's still adamant not to make decisions for us- or with us," Carol sighed. She understood his reluctance after carrying the mantle of leadership for a long time; but for all the stability the prison offered, these two latest newcomers, never mind the still unaccounted for Governor, meant there were still serious issues to be dealt with, quickly and firmly.

In fact, "We can't hope he'll come around," insisted Sasha. "Tyrese and I found you. These two make half a dozen in the past two weeks. Others will come; and our runs will cross paths with even more. No offense to the judgments of any one of us; but we need a system for figuring out who to bring in…" Ever to the point, this group's newest member had summarized the rumbling conversation the recent survivor encounters had started.

"These two didn't ask to join," Daryl reminded, with a quick glance at hospitable Glenn. His mutual disdain for at least one of the brothers wasn't letting up.

"Which makes them cautious, not dangerous…" Glenn defended.

"But we still need a plan, for the less interested, as much as for the desperate," Carol added.

"It was only a couple hours ago, we were getting ready to head out in search of you, when y'all pulled up with a truckload of supplies from those houses, and these two along for the ride. They seemed fairly open and honest for having only received a ride and one meal so far…"

"You just like 'em 'cause they prayed over their meal before eating it," Daryl only half-joked.

But Hershel wouldn't be baited on the faith issue, and in fact raised the stakes on his giving them the benefit of the doubt. "They've also used 'mam' and 'sir' impeccably, which shows good upbringing. They agreed to unpack their bags in plain view before coming inside. And, not least of all," he stressed, "they didn't kill you both when you went back. Nor has _either of them_ taken any opportunity to throw that in your face since." He stressed the last point in direct acknowledgement of Daryl's apparent grudge.

"So they're in a probationary period for the foreseeable future," Carol suggested, before returning to the unresolved issue. "What about others we _will_ find?"

"We won't have the luxury of scheduling a two-day interview process like we did here," Glenn reminded. "Or to bring everyone here for a meet-and-greet, just to say 'no' and send them away knowing where we are and what we have here. And we won't be able to take a committee out to them every time… How many votes do they need to make the cut?"

"We need something flexible—that more than one or a few of us can do, without just going on somebody's hunches alone," Hershel posed.

Daryl stalked over to a shelf of books nearby. "Maybe we can find a fancy survey in one of these, or some paperwork in the offices downstairs! Ya'll make it sound like we gotta have a application process. Maybe require a credit check or first month's rent down?" He was smiling, but the frustration was also clear in his tone.

"Shame that Rick won't just make the call for us every time," Carol said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Be a lot simpler for him to say who's in and who's out."

Sasha sat forward. "Well if not him, what about his questions? We used 'em tonight; and they seemed to work pretty well."(3)

"Just 'cause the dumb one ain't killed nobody yet…," Daryl warned.

"We could give it a try; agree that anyone meeting survivors that might add something to the community, asks those three questions…" Sasha continued.

"What are the correct answers?" wondered Glenn.

"And what's to keep folks from just lying?" added Daryl.

"We shouldn't ignore our gut feelings about folks. And it's probably more the _wrong_ answers we're looking for," thought Carol aloud. "People still out there now have survived somehow; and that experience could be helpful. We just need to get a sense of _how_ they've gotten by this far."

"So no red flags, and a consensus among those of us who are present?" Hershel proposed.

"And just because they make it past these first questions, doesn't mean they get to stay forever," Sasha nodded.

"We can see how that goes, and try something else if it's not working," Carol agreed.

Glenn nodded to Hershel, who looked to their final panelist for his score.

Daryl sighed, clear that he was outvoted at this point; and he didn't have a better suggestion they'd go for any way. Finally, he gave a single nod, and a warning as he stalked out. "Fine; 'til the first time it backfires on us all. I just hope Squeaky and his boy band brother didn't slip through already..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The United States Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia, is the paratrooper training site for all US armed forces.
> 
> 2\. In the real world, Georgia has two nuclear power plants in Waynesboro and Baxley, south and east of the Blue Ridge Mountains (the southern end of the Appalachians). The Waynesboro station is about due east of Senoia, GA, where the show is filmed, and roughly where the group would be at the point in the series.
> 
> 3\. These 3 questions will be standard for the group by 4th Season, and are based on the questions phantom callers asked Rick in _Hounded_ (3.06): How many walkers have you have you killed? How many people have you killed? Why?


	5. Covered Evidence

"I'm pretty sure it's just a sprain," the veterinarian said, as he sat back and looked up to his brusque, blond patient. He was again surprised to find the young man not looking back at him, but rather, at a spot beside him, where the attentive brother was changing spoken words into meaningful shapes. Hershel had already been corrected for speaking to the interpreter instead of to the silent speaker; but the eye contact disconnect was going to take a little longer to get used to.

He continued his professional medical assessment, "It's probably been bothering you for so long because you haven't given it any time to rest and heal. I expect it's useless to tell you stay off it entirely; but you really do need to go easy on it, if you want it to get better."

The repurposed animal doctor turned to his makeshift desk, and scribbled "crutches" on his wish list for the next supply run. "Beyond that, it doesn't look too bad; but I'll have to ask you to only take a painkiller if you really can't stand it. We're running low…"

"I understand," the voice beside him said, just a split second behind the motions before him. "It's better already today for finally sleeping on a mattress."

Hershel smiled, "It's the small luxuries… Your other bumps and scratches have obviously been very well cared for; be thankful for that blessing as well."

The blue eyes shifted from him up toward the speaker; and a simple nod indicated that's where the gratitude should be directed.

Hershel turned to Ben, now silent himself and blushing slightly. "You're the medic in the pair? Even the stitches on his arm?"

"Eagle scout," the scruffy youth explained quietly. "All the health and wellness badges..."

"It's talent, is what it is, son," the medical veteran insisted, his mind churning with what this gifted arrival could mean for the little, and constantly banged up, community.

"Now me, please, sir," Ben asked hurriedly as Bradley turned to put his pants back on.

"Is there something-?"

"I told him a checkup was required of _all_ new arrivals," Ben rushed the explanation as he unbuttoned his own shirt. "It was the only way I could get him to agree. Please, Dr Greene?"

Surprised at the deception, Hershel caught the young man's brown eyes—full of determination, perhaps a little guilt, but mostly more clear devotion to his brother. Impressed, and unable to argue the intention or its larger logic, he nodded and moved aside as the siblings swapped places. _That's actually a pretty good practice; will have to take that up with the Council…_

"Alright then, Ben," he smiled as the new patient settled onto the plain chair in the cellblock mini-clinic. "Anything in particular I should know about current injuries, recent ailments or your larger medical history?"

"No, sir; nothing beyond the obvious scar," his smile dropped quickly again, even as he continued to keep his brother informed of the exchange.

"Do you want to-?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," he interrupted. "It seems to be healing well enough. So unless you see something…"

"No," the actual doc reassured honestly, despite the evidence of what had been a deep, ragged cut from his temple, down his neck and upper chest. "It must have been bad, but has also been well tended. Anything else?" Sitting on the chair across from Ben, he shown a small flashlight at the boy's eyes and into his mouth; and then felt around his throat, under his jaw, and along the scar for any worrying too firm or tender spots. "Considering everything, you're both in remarkably good shape. Quite fit actually, if a little under-fed. I'm guessing you were both athletes?"

Ben apparently paused his signing abruptly, as Bradley grunted and motioned him to finish. Swallowing against a disagreement over disclosure he knew would ensue, he finished, and then translated his own trailing response, "Yes, sir. He swam, and I played…"

"Lacrosse?" Hershel completed his sentence.

"Yes, sir," Ben nodded, pointing to show that he hadn't volunteered that piece of information, that the vet had figured it out.

"I may just be a country horse doctor, and an old one at that," Hershel chuckled, "but I know enough about the world to recognize the lacrosse stick you rigged as a spear."

"Bradley actually did that," Ben corrected. "Not my talent."

Hershel looked up to the scowling weapons engineer, who really didn't seem to like divulging information of any kind. Not wanting to dwell on the pair's apparently differing views on that, he added another observation from the outside. "I also pride myself on being fairly well read in the classics. But I'm not sure how many others caught your Golding reference last night—a pretty grim description of your Scout troop's disintegration."

Both faces looked both embarrassed at having the bookish knowledge caught; Ben looked guilty for having leaked it.

"Good students too, huh? Back in the day?" Hershel deduced.

"No help these days; quite the opposite sometimes," Ben explained. "I shouldn't have said it last night. Please don't tell the others? We have a hard enough time…"

Sadly, Hershel could imagine how schoolyard bullying of the smart kids had probably evolved in these dark times, into something much worse. His eye caught again on Ben's long, and not that old, scar. He patted the nervous boy on the knee, "Put your clothes back on; don't want you catching a chill." He stood and gave him space to get dressed, but faced so that Bradley could still see him speaking. "I'm sorry you feel you have to hide your learning of late. Both for myself, and for our future, I hope we'll make use of that library, and any other connections to the better parts of culture we can find. But… I won't say anything about your educations—doctor-patient privilege and all. That's only on the condition that neither of you hides your smarts. Goodness knows we need all that we can to make and keep this place a home.

"Can you do that for me?" he asked them both, now standing before him. "For as long as you're here," he nodded to Bradley, "we all can benefit from sharing your skills and talents."

With a glance between them, both nodded their agreement, and earned a smile from the grizzled healer. "Good. That said, you both seem to be in remarkably good shape. Bradley, I really meant it when I said you should stay off that leg as much as you can. I'll try to get you a crutch as soon as we can. Ben, we can also keep an eye out for lotions that might help diminish that scar tissue..."

"Thank you, Dr Greene," Ben started the appreciation and handshakes.

Even Bradley spared an un-gruff nod and firm grip before picking up his pack, and making a point to show he hung it on the shoulder over his healthy leg.

He called after them, "You might want to consider just leaving your packs in your room. No need to carry them with you everywhere while you're here!" He chuckled to himself, knowing from the experience of many beyond just himself, how hard it was to adjust from living on the contingent, to living in community. He hoped these two might find some comfort here, and add to that sense for everyone.


	6. Strained Relations

"Cranberry sauce isn't the only thing we're missing," Beth said, as she, Karen, Maggie and Rick took stock of the always too bare storeroom. These four, and most everyone else, had been disappointed to learn that the previous day's supply run had gained the brothers and many other goods, but had only found a small, swollen and so unusable can of the holiday condiment.

"Not much good without the turkey and dressing to put it on," Karen tried to lessen the loss, by pointing out the larger scarcity.

"I imagine there's a number of folks that wouldn't skip it alone, if we had it," Rick reminded.

"We've got few days yet; and Daryl's planning a hunt beyond the run the teams are gonna head out on today. Maybe we'll all get lucky."

"And maybe Michonne will come back with the Governor's head _and_ a fully-loaded Piggly Wiggly tractor trailer…," Karen laughed.(1)

"Several trucks would be even better," Rick reminded. "With these two new boys, we're up to almost three dozen mouths. Never mind Thanksgiving, we gotta eat every day."

"So here's hoping Julio and Daryl can get that third truck working shortly. With the extra set of wheels, we can clean out everything from that neighborhood they couldn't fit yesterday," Maggie concluded. "I'll go check with my dad for his shopping list. Meet you back at the cars?"

Heads nodded, as everyone scattered to get their gear and make last minute checks for anything new or different needed.

Rick took a last look around the largely empty room, struck again how they had so little of everything except needs.

* * *

Yet again, Carl had been handed his sister, and told to 'look after her' while the adults did stuff that was more important, and much more interesting. Yet again, he tried to remain with them while keeping her occupied, refusing to be cut out of the tasks of caring for his community. And, yet again, he'd been sent away so he and Judith wouldn't get in the way. So, he's been grouped with the baby, and banished to her company and service until the grownups deigned him, or her, worthy of attention once again.

Insulted and burdened, he nonetheless took his responsibilities seriously, and combined them: stimulating the cranky-if-bored baby, and patrolling the grounds through a walk-about of the entire prison. He knew it was good exercise for him too, since he was still too small to make good use of the recovered prison gym weights; and they needed everyone at top strength. And the walks allowed him to see and be seen by all the inhabitants, while checking the building and grounds for any risks or problems. "Force projection through presence" and "situational awareness," Shane had called the smart and proactive survival efforts. He bet Shane wouldn't have wasted his presence on watching a drool and poop machine…

On cue, Judith belched and giggled, which broke him from his woe-is-me reverie. Seeing him look down at her, she giggled again, and flailed all her stubby limbs wildly.

 _My sister is amused by her own burps_ , he couldn't help but smile at that. And, having nothing better to do, he swallowed a mouthful of air and fired one back at her.

She squealed, gurgled and kicked in delight.

Chuckling himself, he performed again, stretching and modulating this one into a rise and fall of gassy tones.

"Carl!" a voice chided from the direction of the doorway, "Gross!"

"She started it," he smiled, as Beth approached the table he'd settled at, and lightly batted him on the shoulder.

"If that's what you're going to teach her, I can take her, for a little while," Beth offered as she scrunched her face at the chubby little one, and offered the toddler a recently found chew toy.

"Please and thank you," Carl seized the opportunity without hesitation. "She's clean; and will probably be looking to nap soon." _You're welcome,_ he didn't add aloud, glad to be done baby-sitting whenever he could.

He started to head out to another common area immediately, when she called out after him. "Hey, Carl."

 _Now what?!_ But he just turned in the doorway to see what she wanted.

"Did you hear about the new guys? Mr Jacobson said that they chained themselves into their cell last night. And this morning, they packed everything up, and are carrying it all with them. Is that true?"

"I guess so; sort of," Carl shrugged.

"Have you talked to them at all?" she tried to ask nonchalantly, as she rocked Judith on her hip.

"Dad and I showed 'em to their room last night. They were with your dad, getting looked at, a little while ago. I said 'hi' as they headed back to D." He cocked his head to the side, suddenly wondering, "Why are you so interested?"

"No reason," she said, with a little too much energy, as she turned back to the baby. "Just curious about the new people, same as always."

He squinted at her, knowing she'd never shown any interest in any of the other new arrivals, Woodbury or since. _Women_ , he shrugged, and headed off before she could ask more odd questions, or change her mind about taking over with Judith.

* * *

The cell door wasn't entirely closed. A chain, padlocked into place from the inside, kept the door from moving any closer to the latch—so the occupants couldn't be locked in from the outside. But it also kept the door from opening further—so the residents couldn't have any uninvited guests in the little room either.

And, being at the end of the second level catwalk, and with no one visible as she approached, Beth had to all but step in front of the cell to see whether and who was inside.

As soon as she had, a blond head snapped up from the book it had been looking at; and its owner approached the bars quickly, but cautiously. Giving the girl and baby a once over, the figure held a finger over his lips, pointed toward the bunk he'd been sitting on and folded his hands beside his cheek while closing his eyes briefly.

"Oh, your brother's asleep?" Beth confirmed in a whisper.

The young man nodded, looked nervously at the toddler, and then raised his eyebrows, wondering what the older girl had come for.

"I'm Beth," she smiled. "I just wanted to come by and introduce myself. And say 'welcome.' Being neighborly, you know." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, before the grasping infant could latch on.

The man nodded again, still looking a little puzzled by her unexpected visit, especially with a baby in tow.

She looked from Judith back to him, "We didn't get a chance to get introduced when y'all arrived last night. You're Bradley, right?

The man held his finger up again, in a "just a minute" way; and went back to the far corner of the cell. Reaching into a side pocket on one of the ready-to-grab hiking packs there, he returned quickly with a small, child-sized chalkboard. He scribbled on it quickly, and held it up to show in clear, block letters: "EASIER." With a nod, he offered to pass the board and chalk through to her.

"Oh," she realized he must be having trouble understanding her. She also realized that her arms were already full with Judith, and that trying to pass notes back and forth through the bars would be awkward regardless. "Um, why don't you come out here?" she beckoned him.

His eyes narrowed; and he glanced out into the larger room and down the walkway, before looking back to her, as if sizing up her intentions.

"It's OK," she reassured, stepping back up the balcony and sitting down to face the dead end just outside his door. Sitting Judith in the space between her legs, she'd quickly made a safe spot for the baby, and hopefully for him to feel comfortable joining her in.

Cautiously, almost grudgingly, he unlocked the chain and carefully slid the door just enough to slide himself out and then sit down cross-legged just outside it, blocking her access to the opening, while maintaining his. Still watching around for whatever was keeping him on edge, he wiped the board clean with a rag, and handed the toolset to her.

Smiling, and watching that Judith didn't chew on an edge, Beth wrote and shared, "I'm Beth. You're Bradley?"

He nodded, and waved a "hello" of sorts.

"Ben = brother?"

Another nod in the direction of the cell.

"My sister = Maggie. My dad = Hershel."

A more meaningful nod, as at least some of this seemed new information to him.

"How's your leg?"

Thumbs up. _She'd obviously been paying attention when they arrived, and were introduced to everyone over dinner the night before._

"From Atlanta?" and "Boy Scout?" were also met with affirmative nods, as he seemed to humor her interview.

"How old?" she decided to go beyond confirming facts, and yes/no questions. She handed him the un-iPad, and indicated both him and the sleeping sibling.

"Me = 19 Ben = 18"

"I'm the youngest in my family," she explained aloud, hoping he could follow that just through lip reading.

He pointed to the baby with what she guessed was his general "question" facial expression.

"Oh," she laughed nervously, hoping she hadn't given the wrong impression. "Not mine," she scribbled quickly. "Judith = Rick's. Just watching for now. I'm single."

Bradley's face dropped as he read, looking up at her suddenly with an awkward, uncomfortable look.

"I can't believe I wrote that," she mumbled to herself as she quickly wiped it out, and wrestled a corner away from Judith. Blushing, she took advantage of the baby's irritated cry at being deprived of the potential toy or meal. Feeling embarrassed and flush, Beth shoved the board, chalk and rag back to Bradley, and scooped Judith up to make an escape.

"Sorry," she tried to explain. "It's time for her nap. We should go… So she doesn't wake your brother." Waving good-bye around the squirming baby, she retreated back down the stairs and back toward her building.

Having to figure out what was happening since she hadn't written it or kept her mouth visible while talking, Bradley waved awkwardly after her. Not that a little ego stroke wasn't nice, and ever rare, her bumbling admission and hasty departure still left him smiling to himself, _Women_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. An actual regional Southern US grocery store chain, often referred to as "The Pig" by locals, for short.


	7. Expanding Circles

"Why didn't you take us on this run?" Ben translated with passion, but without other greeting as the three, fully-loaded vehicles pulled into the prison's inner courtyard. His silent partner had a clearly angry look on his face; and his hands swirled toward the returned salvage teams. "We know that neighborhood as well, if not better than any of you!"

"You were sleeping when we left…," Rick pointed out as he headed to the rear of the pickup, and began unloading the supplies, with a glance to confirm the gates had all been closed.

"I can be woken up," Ben reminded on his own behalf, as both brothers followed. "And you can talk directly to Bradley; I'll interpret when needed."

"Fine!" Rick looked the irritated blond directly in the eye for the first time in the exchange. "Hershel said you needed to stay off your leg. And I figured, as joined as the hip as y'all understandably are, that your brother wouldn't go without you. Was I wrong?"

Both young men gaped for a moment, apparently not expecting, and certainly not immediately able to answer that reasoning. Placing a hand on his brother, as he seemed about to reply, Ben shifted to a controlled, but still unhappy tone, to explain that, "With all due respect, sir, it's not Doctor Greene's decision on whether he can move around or help."

Shoving a box of cans at the debater, Deputy Grimes reminded him, "Actually, it's not _your_ decision on whether we let you go on _our_ runs." He looked past the chatty sibling, and waved over the other, "You! Since you _are_ here, take something." He reached into the cabin, and pulled out an armful of bedding and pillows. "Just follow everyone else; and thank you for your help with _this_ important part of the process."

Neither brother looked happy, understanding the forced Southern politeness enough to take the "F- off" meaning behind it. Bradley looked to Ben for some clarification on whether and how they should react to the deputy's text and tone.

Coming by with his own armload, Glenn didn't give them a chance to misunderstand or engage, either way. "Ben!" he called with his own, genuine smile, "Come with me. I'll get you taken care of." He'd made the argument for their invitation to join the community; he knew he held responsibility for helping everyone adjust to one another. And a truck-side argument wasn't going to get the supplies unloaded or the tension diffused.

Without waiting for an answer or confirmation, he led them into the main room where supplies were being dropped for sorting. He waved the two newcomers back outside for another load, and pulled them to the side as soon as they'd returned outdoors.

"You promised us-" Ben began as soon as they were alone, hands whirring with the frustration both brothers felt.

"Look," Glenn interrupted, "it's not that we didn't think either of you is more than capable of a supply run; and it wasn't to cut you out of anything. _I_ thought you might both appreciate the rest in a safe place… I'm sorry if that came across as anything else."

"Thank you for your concern and... hospitality," Ben translated. "But we didn't come for charity or to serve at your whim. We expect to earn our keep, and to be involved in deciding how and what that looks like."

"And you will," Glenn assured. "We all have to be. Today… was just a bad assumption on my part. Sorry."

The brothers glanced at one another, and then out toward the other long-time community members, still unloading.

"Nobody thinks either of you _can't_ be useful; you've obviously done well on your own," Glenn repeated again, on that community's behalf.

"And we didn't come here to serve, either. We can help, pull our weight –but only as equals."

Glenn looked shocked at the implication. "Why wouldn't you be?"

Ben cast another solemn glance at Bradley, and shared quietly, "Let's just say that we've seen the system where we can never do enough, never earn enough… And we're not doing that again."

Not fully understanding what that might mean, but knowing it didn't sound good, Glenn put a hand on each's shoulders. "You're here, with us, part of us now. And if anybody suggests otherwise, tell 'em to come see me." Grinning at the nods he received, he suggested, "Now, if we volunteer to take responsibility for fixing dinner tonight, we can choose our favorites from what just came in…"

* * *

As supper was already underway that night, it was the next evening's meal that was more spirited than usual. The previous day's bounty allowed for a slightly broader than usual menu, and everyone knew it. Unexpectedly, two new chefs were able to use some salvaged apple preserves to add a not half-bad sweet cake to a palate normally punctuated only by precious, and non-perishable, hot sauce.

"Michonne is missing out, huh, Dad?" Carl grinned as he licked away the last evidence of his small dessert ration.

"I doubt you'd leave her any, if she was here," Rick smiled back, tapping the broad hat down over the boy's eyes. The baby in his arms was one other less competitor for the scarce treat.

"Whaddaya think?" asked Glenn, as he settled down beside the family and other core friends. He set a cup of cake pan scrapings down in front of Carl, renewing his broad smile.

"Their cake seems to have the approval of our panel of judges," chuckled Herschel, soaking in the boy's simple glee.

"I could do without the attitude," Daryl sneered, while slowly nibbling on his sweet sample.

Rick nodded agreement. "And it's not like they seem to want to fit in: Shooting off their mouths-one mouth," he corrected himself. "Carrying their gear with them everywhere. Locking themselves in their room; and taking turns sleeping so one's always watching us… That's hardly signs they trust us, or wanna fit in or stay."

Before Glenn could jump in, Carol pointed out flatly, "They're just being smart."

The men around the table looked up at her from under eyebrows, and over nearly scraped clean plates.

"Smart enough to know that when entering a new situation, they need to be cautious and to show strength. We should learn from them; not talk about them behind their backs, while slurping up their cooking…"

Without conceding her points, Daryl quickly set down his bowl and persisted, "Not like the squeaky one knows if we're talking anyway…"

Tipping his entirely empty bowl over in front of him, demonstrating his stomach's gratitude for the new, good cooks, Carol pointed out, "Ironic, since you're a lot like him, actually."

Daryl looked offended, as the others held their breath at what comparison she'd make, and how he'd react.

But Carol just smiled sweetly as she stood to leave with an armful of dishes, "You're both soft under the scruff. You don't say much. And you sure as hell never listen."

A split second later, the entire end of the table burst into loud laughter. All except one blushing biker…

* * *

"I think it's a great idea. And to an extent, it's what we've been doing informally any way," Hershel summarized to the group the next evening. "So, if everyone agrees, we'll make that baseline health check-up a part of any new arrivals' first day or so."

"And if you find anything concerning, you'll bring it back to this group?" Sasha concluded, to nods all around.

"You also said Ben has some medical experience. And he seems eager, if not adamant, about getting involved," Carol reminded, sharing a smile with Daryl about Rick's effective intervention on that. "Are you up for an apprentice?"

"I hope so, and that he is too. Maybe we'll start by having him help collect a more detailed medical history, allergies and the like, for everyone already here as well."

"Are we sure we want a newcomer to have to all that private info on everyone?" Sasha asked.

"I won't report the HIPAA violations, if you won't," the doctor smiled. "I'll talk with him about the obvious need for confidentiality; and, if people prefer, they can come to me directly. But I think any discomfort people may have at first, is well worth having a record of health issues, in case something happens to the patient, or to the doctor…"

Not wanting to consider that possibility above all, Glenn agreed, "And knowing if we have some not obvious conditions, or peanut or medication allergies, for example, can help us avoid hurting anyone without meaning to."

Nods almost all around approved that assistance, tasking at least half the strong-willed siblings to a standing duty.

"What's next on the agenda?"

"Thanksgiving dinner, or poor options for it, even with the new supplies…"


	8. Excursions & Excuses

"He ain't going with me," Daryl repeated, with a growing irritation. "Nobody else is going."

"Well what about Ben, then?" Glenn asked, moving around the motorcycle as the hunter removed some items from its sidebags. "He can hear, and help."

Not feeling the need to clarify further, Daryl just glared at him silently, as he put the binoculars in his backpack, and tied the sidebag shut.

"We don't doubt you're the best hunter," Maggie explained, with a smile. "Just hoping you'll need help carrying back everything you catch…"

"I don't need help, and I sure ain't giving charity. You wanted 'em; you got 'em; _you_ babysit 'em." Discussion over, Daryl turned and headed toward the gate.

"He's really hard to reason with, or argue," Glenn sighed, admitting his attempt at peace-building had gotten nowhere.

"Especially when he's right," Maggie grinned. She took his hand and turned them back toward the cellblock. "You did right by inviting them here. But you can't force folks to respect or like them; they'll have to earn that on their own… Just like we all did."

Glenn smiled, understanding and agreeing with the truth she spoke. And, more and more appreciating the woman he'd earned the respect and love of.

* * *

"Why _does_ he squeal like that?" Carl asked two days later, taking advantage of the medical interview to ask a few questions of his own.

Ben glanced to the supervising father, who gave no indication the potentially rude question was anything other than fair, given that the medical assistant was asking some intrusive questions of his own.

"Well, Bradley can't hear the sounds he makes; and he's also never heard sounds anybody else makes. So he never learned what a shout is supposed to sound like, and can't tell when he's making one anyway." He nodded toward Carl's infant sibling sucking awkwardly on her own fist. "Sort of like Judith, who probably doesn't understand that _she_ is making some of the sounds she hears, and doesn't mean anything specific by what she does make."

Carl nodded, that explanation sating his curiosity, at least for now.

"Any other illness or injuries?" Ben redirected, being sure to look to the watchful dad for his input and approval.

"I don't think so?" Carl too looked for, and received a confirmatory shake.

"OK, that's all I have for you, Carl." He turned toward the sheriff, and indicated with a little less confidence, as if asking rather than stating, "Same questions for you, sir."

"Carl," Rick interrupted the change in focus. "Why don't you run along? No need to sit through this boring, grown up conversation."

Usually irritated to be sent away from adult discussions, Carl had no wish to observe an interrogation about scratches and scrapes; and the glow on his expression made that clear. He hesitated as he stood, though, glancing at the baby he realized would likely be handed to him, the ironically stifling price for his freedom.

His dad read the reactions clearly and, also not wanting to disrupt the dozing infant, smiled him a precious gift. "I'll keep her. You just stay outta trouble."

Grinning even wider at both bearded men, Carl backed away quickly, almost afraid the offer would be rescinded if he acted on it too quickly. No reversal coming, he turned and scampered out the door.

"You're a good dad," Ben complimented honestly.

"Based on your extensive parenting experience?" Rick's eyebrow accented the critical question.

"Based on eighteen years of being an eldest son," Ben retorted as quickly, if less harshly.

Rick looked down to his daughter, remembering that the family relationship was two-way. He hoped his kids would experience his good intentions and understand them, despite some rocky efforts. He hoped everyone who looked to him for strength or direction would.

Moving them beyond the awkward exchange, Ben turned to his questionnaire. "Same questions as for Carl: Did you ever have chicken pox? Mumps or measles? Other childhood fevers or infections?"

Silent but sure nod or shake for each item in the list.

"You had all your childhood vaccinations? Were you up to date on your tetanus?"

"All police officers had to be."

A nod in return. "Have you had your tonsils, appendix or other tissues or organs removed? Any food, drug or environmental allergies –like bee stings, or latex? Any known heart, lung, GI or nerve issues? Any family history? Any significant injuries?"

"I was shot in the line of duty," Rick gestured to his side, "just before everything went down. Woke up to the world as it is now. Everything since is a gift, Hershel says. I imagine that doesn't make your scar any less painful?"

Ben's eyes dropped from the agreeing nod he was sharing.

Not having meant the attempt at connection to be a downer, Rick tried changing the subject. "Lemme ask you something, beard to beard: Has your brother always been deaf?"

No happier for the sensitive topic, Ben nonetheless looked up to answer the interest in something other than himself. "Yes, sir. Some sort of neurological issue between his ears and brain."

"And there was nothing to be done about it?"

"There was some talk of implants, even in the year …before. But there was no guarantee it would work; and he's proud to be Deaf. It made him different, special, and part of something unique. And not hearing was rarely the issue; it was how other people treated him because he couldn't…"

"But you understand it makes him a liability now?"

"Much like an infant, a hormone-filled tweenager, or a one-legged old man; yes, sir," Ben replied politely, but firmly. His expression remained charming, but his eyes indicated he wouldn't stand for any critique. "Beard to beard," he reminded the honest bond across which they were sharing.

Rick actually broke out in a smile, as Judith babbled a little, as if to concede his points. "You're a brave one; I'll give you that. And loyal too, hopefully to more than just blood family…"

"To those who have earned it," Ben explained, sighing a little relief, that his strong stance had gained him some respect.

"We're good people here, if you give us a chance. It's smart to be cautious, but you gotta try too..." And before the young man could bring up the conflict of a few days earlier, Rick explained, "And I don't mean by causing a scene over every perceived slight. We're bound to mess up at some point; we're human. But we're all trying our best under the circumstances. And, so long as you're trying your best, we're glad you're part of that now."

"Yes, sir," the young man understood and agreed to the détente.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I think my little liability needs a change."

* * *

Two people whose named escaped him had begun at one end of the outer fence, and were slowly walking down toward the gate, occasionally spearing a rotten as they moved. He certainly couldn't hear, and couldn't quite see, whether they were taunting their targets, or just talking with one another.

Regardless, he shook his head, noting how small a dent the odd kill was putting in the large number of visible, upright threats beyond the chainlink. In fact, it seemed their sounds and actions were actually just attracting the stragglers farther out, so that an even larger crowd was beginning to gather and follow the two 'guards' along the fence.

It seemed strong enough. And there weren't really _that_ many besiegers.

But, just in case, Bradley felt beside him to be sure of his knife, his slingshot and Ben's loaned bident spear.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a movement off to his side, and turned to see the sheriff's son watching him from a doorway. Not appreciating the surveillance, and curious himself, he waved the boy over.

As if doubting that an older person would actually request his presence, Carl pointed to himself in surprise, and slowly walked toward the smile and nod he received in response.

Accepting the invitation to sit beside the silent blond, he noted the handy set of weapons, and again grieved that he had only a knife.

"You not help?" Bradley scribbled quickly on his chalkboard, nodding toward the outer fence.

"Dad says no," Carl scowled back, before repeating the explanation in writing when prompted.

The silent sentry squished his face and shrugged a nonverbal _why_?

"Too dangerous," Carl wrote and rolled his eyes. "Thinks I can't."

"You 'not able'; like me?"

The younger boy nodded, feeling, but not sharing, that he obviously was more capable than a deaf guy.

"We could prove them wrong," Bradley wrote, with a 'want to?' look on his face.

Carl beamed. A chance to do _something_. To _prove_ something! And, no small thing besides, to be accepted as an equal co-conspirator by this would-have-been college guy. Lucky day!

Standing, they headed down to the opposite side of the gate, along the creek, to draw off some of the clump and to begin clearing that flank of loiterers. Grunting and grinning together, Bradley and Carl moved down the fence, the taller man stabbing at eye-level eyes with his bowie knife, and the shorter boy spiking heads up from below with the lent spear.

Over the gurgles and groans of their dispatches, Carl heard a commotion across the gate, as the other team announced "Daryl? Michonne!"

Nudging his new friend, Carl pointed toward the two, fur and feather boa'd figures emerging from the woods along main entrance road.

All three pairs of living humans realized at the same time that the gate was well-blocked by the crowd the initial clearing work had attracted, and the two boys hadn't been able to draw off. There was no way the arrivals could get through the small herd, and no way those inside could open the gate quickly and briefly enough to let only them in, even if they could reach it. To welcome the returners home would require a risky, bloody battle.

"Michonne! The bridge! Use the gap in the fence!" Carl shouted, as he encouraged the others on patrol to attract and keep the attention of the walkers around them.

Understanding, and glancing toward the largely clear section of fence farther down, the swordswoman waved her companion along the far side of the water.

Not knowing about the secret cut in the fence, Bradley had to trust his smaller friend, and followed his lead in jumping and waving to call and hold the attention of the rottens nearest them.

Behind the two loud, and still skewering, pairs of people on the inside, Daryl and Michonne moved to and across the small wooden bridge, and through the clipped closed gap in the wiring. Only a few lone walkers posed any challenge, and they were handled quickly by whirling long or short blades.

Once they were safely inside, and a few slower undead snarling beyond the restored clasps, Carl led the three other guards toward the resting arrivals, as a few others came down from the buildings, having heard the commotion.

"Who was the genius that lured them all to the gate?" Daryl vented, as he dropped his yoke of two large turkeys to the ground, and helped Michonne remove her third, along with some assorted rabbits and squirrels.

"Bradley suggested we go help clear them out," Carl volunteered around a welcoming hug to Michonne, with an admiring look to the pal trying to keep up with what was being spoken fast and furiously. "He saw that they were gathering too much."

Daryl cast him a surprised glance, but said nothing. He seemed to have been well aware of the dynamics at the fence, but wasn't willing to offer more than criticism at the other guard pair. "Don't ever lead them _toward_ the gate, assholes. If you're stupid enough to encourage them bunching up at all, do it somewhere other than the front door!"

Not waiting for a response of any kind, much less a defense, Daryl picked up his bounty, and headed toward the cellblocks.

Michonne offered no softening of his rebuke, as the man and woman headed silently back to thin the crowd, hopefully in smarter way. Instead, she smiled knowingly at Carl, and let him sling the game bouquet over his shoulder and wave his pals on.

With a reassuring nod from the dark woman, Bradley made an exaggerated bowing, "you're welcome" motion after the thankless archer, and fell in behind them. As Carl began asking Michonne about her quest for the Governor, Bradley wiped off his knife and spear, and looked hard at the simple, single and thus susceptible entry to his new home.


	9. Cobbled Gobbles

"Beth?"

"Not too much longer now…," she explained with a little irritation and a forced perkiness in her voice. "We're going as fast as we can."

"We know," the calm voice assured.

It was so _not_ accusatory, in fact, that she stopped cutting Twinkies into poor man's petits fours, and looked up to the edge of the cramped, busy space.

"The B's," as they'd become known for their initials and relation, were standing at the door to the expanded, if still ad hoc kitchen. Bradley was holding a battered plastic container, which he held out as Ben explained, "We brought something for the dinner."

Had it been anyone else, she probably would have looked away with a quick, "Thanks. Just put in on the table." But, these particular two, they had come to her specifically; they'd brought something to her. She wiped her probably dirty cheek with the back of her hand, decided not to accidentally rub snack cake into her hair, and smiled, "Oh. What it is?"

Ben nudged his brother forward, and signed beside him as they showed and explained. "It's our best go at a fruit relish. To go with the meal. But we wanted you to try it first, to make sure it was good enough..."

They _had_ come to her especially! And at least one of them could do more than a dutch oven cake… But she throttled her thrill, and asked simply, "How…?"

Bradley pushed the tub at her, and let his interpreter voice his makeshift holiday condiment's backstory. "A while back, we dried some peaches and scuppernongs, for the winter. But we've been hearing how folks here were grieving the lack of cranberry sauce with today's dinner. So, we mashed the dried fruit with some water and stuff... It's not cranberries, or really sweet enough; but we wanted to contribute something. If you think it's good enough…"

Both of them were looking at her with worried, hopeful expressions. So their happiness, and the whole community's access to a substitute sauce apparently rested on her assessment. Mostly for the other blond in this interaction, she really hoped she liked it, or could fake it well. Hesitantly, she dipped her finger in an edge, and hooked a small dab to taste. She licked the sample and smacked her lips together a few times, before looking up at them with wide eyes, shocked, "What's in this?"

The boys looked at each other, unsure whether and why she was displeased with the offering. "Um, some spices— cinnamon and dried orange zest from the pantry," Ben tried to remember their creative process. Bradley gestured a reminder at him. "Oh yeah, and we mixed in some sweetener packets we'd been saving."

"It's amazing!"

No translation was needed for her joyful expression; and the boys returned her smile, with some added relief. They just hoped the rest of the community liked their creative camping cuisine, particularly the core adult leaders.

* * *

Less than half an hour later, the several dozen prison inhabitants were all squeezed into the single large space at the outer end of Cellblock C. While the original and newer residents split most meals and other down time between the two occupied wings, everyone had packed into this one room, because the pantry and armory in the D Block counterpart left less space for full gatherings.

As many and as tight as they were, the bodies warmed the room well on the cold, wet day; and the space was also filled with the smells and smiles of the uncommon gathering.

Emboldened by their choosing her to gift with their condiment contribution, Beth had arranged to have Bradley sit beside her, with his brother beyond him, just around the table's corner, so he could translate. Maggie and Glenn continued the Green line beyond Hershel on her other side. She ignored her sister's inquisitive eyebrows, and focused instead on quietly pointing out to the young men, which concoctions she'd worked on, and which others she thought would be best to try first.

As the last few dishes and diners took their place, the bearded elder beside her stood and invited the cramped circle to take hands, and share a moment's grace.

Quickly taking and dropping Ben's hand, Bradley made sure his foot was on his brother's to maintain the contact while freeing his hands. He smiled to the beaming, almost blushing, Beth as she took his hand, and they settled in to listen to or watch the prayer.

"Heavenly Father," Hershel began, "we gather before you during a time that can make us question many things, make us more doubtful than grateful. I know many of those at these tables, even those who share my faith in You, we are filled with more worry than wonder in these days, more anger than appreciation. Why have things come to be as they are? Where has your love gone in this dark time? What is your divine purpose in having us suffer these horrors? In having us _survive_ them?

"It's true that much of the past—the people and the things—are lost to us; and we grieve them mightily. Much of the future is unclear to us; and we fear it mightily. How can we possibly focus on gratitude, on thanks and happiness, in the midst of this loss, fear and hardship? How dare we?"

He paused, and seemed to sniffle, before continuing with more resolve. "And so, Lord, it is my wish that, perhaps just for today, you can help us take a moment—not to forget that history or future—but to focus on what we _do_ have, what we _have_ found, and what we _are_ making. We are scared and struggling, Lord, hurt and hoping in a new world not of our creation. _And_ , we have made a safe home for our growing community, gathering family and friends and neighbors, working together to create a new life by hard work and sacrifice. Not so unlike the forefathers whose meal and mettle we remember today…

"For life. For connection. For community. For hope. For that all we have, that you have given us, great God, we give You our thanks. As we enjoy this bounty together, we celebrate all our blessings. Amen."

The room sat still and silent, as the old man's words settled over them. Some bowed their heads; some closed their eyes; some turned theirs upward. Many nodded in agreement with his questions; fewer with his hopeful closing. Several cheeks were tear stained. And those with blood bonds, gently squeezed hands to confirm their connection.

It wasn't until the littlest member of the community gurgled out a bubbling laugh from her father's lap, that spirits, voices and forks were lifted in communal, consumable Thanksgiving.

* * *

"I was so worried we wouldn't have turkey for Thanksgiving!" Carl grinned across the drumstick he was happily stripping to the bone. "It's amazing."

"Thanks to Daryl for that gift," Rick nodded, happy the boy and several other children were getting some happy-, and healthy-, making holiday chow.

"How did we get this un-cranberry relish?" Maggie asked.

"The wonder twins made it," Glenn answered, with an impish glance across the table at Carol's seat neighbor.

"They've got kitchen badges now?" Daryl pondered mockingly, licking his fingers despite the handy, special occasion napkin beside him.

"Scoffs the man who's two-for-two in plate licking when they've cooked…," Carol shot him a mixed sarcastic and serious, and certainly amused look.

"Ain't there a game on, or somethin'?" scoffed that man, with an indignant push away from the table.

"Right after the Macy's Parade," Carol laughed after him.

"Who has the paper?" Maggie joined in the laughter. "I want to plan out my Black Friday shopping strategy…"

The chuckling gave way quickly to an awkward silence at the reminder that, in the past, this day would have also started a countdown to Christmas for most of the survivors.

"We've all got long wish lists this year," Hershel acknowledged on everyone's behalf. "Let's just enjoy today?" he asked, making to pass a bowl of warmed canned vegetables toward the silent and signing brothers beyond his smiling daughter. "We'll plan more runs tomorrow. One holiday at a time…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for slow updates on this and other WIPs; have been jotting notes and sketching scenes, just not enough, complete enough to post. Yet!


End file.
